When I was young my friends and I went roller skating. Loud music came blaring out of over head speakers, and we thrummed around and around every Friday afternoon. Some of the kids even figured out how to go backwards. But I never really mastered stopping. Mostly I bashed into the wall trying not to take anyone with me.
When our firstborn learned how to ride a bike I was not ready. I recall running and pushing from behind, but all of a sudden he took off without me. He had learned how to balance and was gaining speed. At that moment John was walking home from the office and Lukas called down the road to him.
"I just learned how to ride and I can't stop, so get out of the road!"
There were no casualties.
The art of endings still eludes me. Having gained momentum from mothering nine children for forty years, the past eighteen months have entailed running into walls. Our youngest daughters moved to Europe, so routines like cooking dinner for them, or cheering at their performances abruptly disappeared. My older kids have made decisions about jobs and relocation, and I held my tongue. While I used to hold sway over where they lived and what they earn I no longer do.
All of us have to find fresh rhythms. Whether it is the death of a partner, or moving across the country, or a diagnosis it behooves us to avoid crashing.
I am still wobbly about how to down shift my jobs. I have run marriage groups, mentoring quartets, and thirteen conferences. Having sent out these stories every morning for a dozen years I will stop in about a hundred days. There are the standard warnings about retirement to lean into, but finding my balance is not something someone else can do for me.
